



*=^X?PigcX^vo 



i 



%■% Jl 3 : n-2triftMP 4. 



THE 



PSYCHOSCOPE. 



BY 




^5 A' i^arnsr 



139' 



OCT 



To those whose memories beguile 

The pain of other years: 
i'd liyht their sorrows with a smile — 

Baptize their griefs in tears. 

The Author. 



u%ry)V 



{)>,<) 



l'nr L'kte Index Print, Warrentorij \'a. 






Entered according to Act of Congress 

B\ B. L. Garner, 

In 1891 in the office of the Librarian of 
Congress at Washington, D. (J. 



I 



i\ ^zW'QTl i=>Q 6 



PAGE 



IpThe Drift 
Perfidy 

It Used to Be . 

Caucasian Monkeys 

The Church Militant 

Woman 

Despair 

The Dream 

Meditations 



8 
11 
16 
'20 
24 
30 



THE DRIFT. 

[To the many friends the Author has met on the 
highways of life.] 

I often watch ths rising* stream. 

And see the drift go by ; 
So like our lives its action seems, 
I cannot help but sigh : 
Strangers to-day upon the current meeting, 
Friends for a moment, with a smile and 
greeting, 

And then we separate. 

The fragments, scattered everywhere. 

Go drifting with the tide, 
A moment loiter here and there, 
Then on again they glide ; 
Drifting onward somewhere, they know 

not whither, 
But drifting downward with the restless 
river, 

Unheeding tow'rds the sea. 

Upon the river's liquid breast 

Those little crafts are tossed : 
A moment seen upon its crest, 
And then a moment lost ; 
That is, to us — are lost to mortal vision 
Albeit drifting on to fields Elysian, 
To fill some destiny. 



In and out along the shore, 

Into nooks and eddies swinging : 
Then they circle out once more, 
Then a little instant clinging 
To some other fragment, then rudely cast 

asunder, 
Still at the torrent's mercy, first out, then 
under. 

But always seaward bound. 

Thus we go drifting down the years, 

Forever tow'rds the sea ; 
By creeds and prayers each pilot steers. 
To Life's eternal quay. 
The lamp of hope upon the mast still 

burning, 
But drifting on, and never more returning. 
Until the years return. 

o 



PERFIDY. 

There are times in life when the heart is sad 

And the lips with pain are sealed ; 
When the pining soul canuot be glad, 

And the pain cannot be healed. 
• Tis not when death, with his poisoned dart, 
Hath stung the life and chilled the heart 

Of some devoted friend — 
When kindred fall, as the autumn leaves. 
The angels gather in the sheaves. 

And there our sorrows end. 

There are times when the heart must throb 
and fret, 

And the pangs afresh will live: 
When the wounded soul cannot forget. 

Nor the aching heart forgive. 



'Tis not when remorse for our evil deeds 
Impels our zeal to prayers and beads, 

And conscience seeks to shrive: 
'Tis not when the evil winds of fate 
Have wrecked our peace in the gulf of hate, 

For love may still survive. 

There's a balm of hope that still exalts 

Our faith above our sorrow: 
But if love is fickle and friends are false, 

What faith can trust to-morrow? 
'Tis not the weight of bereavement's yoke, 
Nor stern disaster's cruel stroke, 

With the pain that they impart; 
For the lapse of time repays our loss. 
But perfidy is a burning cross, 

Which crucifies the heart. 



<> 



IT USED TO BE. 

Some poet said, "it might have been 

Are the saddest words of tongue or pen. 

It may be true, I cannot tell, 

For on sad themes I will not dwell: 

But there's a phrase in another tense, 

That's just as true in every sense, 

And that is, every one you see 

Will tell you something "used to be" 



The old and young of every station, 
Say it without variation; 
The rich — the poor of every clime. 
Were better off some other time: 



The prince, the paupar. sinner, saint. 
The proud, the humble, make complaint ; 
The great, the lowly, bond or free 
Will tell you voir "it used to be" 

Poverty lifts its ghastly face. 

And tries to smile in its disgrace — 

A sickly smile— a haggard grin. 

To cover the shame of a common sin. 

It plays with the shreds of tattered gowns. 

Alternating smiles and frowns, 

But finds a comfort in the plea — 

Although not now "it used to be." 

Never a pauper yet so poor 
Begging his bread from door to door, 
Who had not something he could say, 
Of what he'd been some former day : 
Some deed of valor he had done. 
Some battle he had lost or won. 
The hero of some story he 
Not, now is, but he "used to be." 

Some great exploit, he now can tell, 
When he was young, or rich, or well, 
That he has done— or might have done, 
If he had just been let alone. 
And so he thinks some future day 
Will find him better off : it may ; 
The change is but a slight degree 
From what it always "used to be." 

Strolling along the crowded street 
Of any city, you will meet 
Some poor old crone in rags and tears. 
Bending with the weight of years ; 



And the sad story she'll impart 
Would touch the soul and swell the heart, 
Until you'd think that even she 
Is poorer now than "used to be." 

The sun of life rolls down the way, 
The shadows lengthen day by day, 
The old man sits in his well-worn chair, 
With specs and pipe and a world of care, 
With shrunken limbs and failing eyes, 
Toothless and deaf, and thus he sighs, 
"Alas! how things have changed with me; 
There's nothing like "it used to be." 

"Folks aren't honest now, I know, 
"Like they 'used to be,' long ago; 
"I'm sure, that when I was a lad, 
"Folks loerent noihiri like so bad." 
And the old man, believing that 
Takes his red kerchief from his hat, 
And wipes his eyes, and says "dear me, 
"Things now aren't like they used to be" 

The good old dame with ruffled cap, 
Sits with her kniting in her lap: 
The kittens roll the yarn on floor, 
The house-dog lies on the rug before 
The glowing fire. She once was fair, 
But now, alas! her whitened hair, 
And wrinkled face, as one may see. 
Are nothing like they "used to be" 

Weary years have left their traces 
On these venerable faces; 
And now the old folks read and pray, 
Waiting the close of life's long day, 



6 

Waiting the clock on the white- washed 

wall, 
To tick the time of the final call ; 
Till then the old folks cannot see 
Why things aren't like they "use to be" 

The old man says, ''long, long ago'' 
That everything was "so-and-so." 
Grandma tells the children wild, 
How she did when she was a child: 
But since this world has been a world, 
Boys have been boys and girls been girls, 
And all things else, you must agree, 
Are much the same they "usedtobe." 

In the dead past we love to dwell, 
And of all its good we tell ; 
But the bad we try to hide, 
Because it stings our human pride 
When we recall the solemn truth, 
That we were nothing more in youth 
Than we are now; but somehow we 
Will still aver u if used to be." 

'Tis true we've parted from the ways 
Our fathers used, in by-gone-days, 
To plow, to harrow, plant and sow, 
With scythe and sickle to reap and mow, 
To thresh the grain with hoof and flail, 
And part the chaff with sheet and pail; 
And bless the day that set us free 
From things like these, that "used to In." 

Every time it rains or snows, 
Every time a hard wind blows, 
All mankind join in together, 
"Oh! 'd you ever see such weather ?" 



Yes, summ3i\ winter, rain and snow, 
Seed-time and harvest come and go, 
Just as they always did: but we 
Are not just what we "used to he." 

Alas ! we've changed in age and health. 
Have lost our strength, and spent our 

wealth 
Like prodigals, and now we fret, 
And sigh, and frown, and soon forget 
How little of this world is ours: 
How, 'mid the sunshine and the show'rs 
Time sweeps his wing o'er land and sea 
The same to-day as "used to be." 

Go to the church-yard: one by one 

Read the lines upon each stone: 

No matter what it has beside, 

Each stone contains "was born" and 

"died" 

So in our lives, whatever change, 
How wonderful soe'er, or strange, 
The skeleton of life you'll see, 
Is just the same "it used to be." 

Hope and fear, passion, joy and pain, 
Love, hate, and anger will remain, 
Till th' angel, with one foot on shore, 
Shall "swear that time shall be no more." 
Till then, old Saturn with his glass, 
Shall measure all the hours that pass: 
Till then, we may expect to see 
Most things just like they "used to be." 

Man, the frail tyrant of the earth, 
Fretting from the hour of birth, 



8 

All the world in turmoil keeps, 
Till at last he falls asleep: 
Time, the hoary-headed reaper, 
Never shall arouse the sleeper, 
Till from hence our shadows flee, 
Back to what they "used to he!" 



o- 



CAUC ASIAN MONKEYS. 

Whenever I hear an American say, 
"I cawrit" or "I shawnC with "a diph- 
thongal "a," 

I feel a disgust which I cannot express, 
And feel the impulse to demand a redress. 
It really shocks ev'ry delicate sense, 
To hear any human make such a pretense; 
The practice is simply a thing to deride, 
Revolting to all true American pride. 

And so of a thousand -and-one other things, 
The Anglo-dudee to America brings; 
And shoddy Americans catch at the brogue 
And think it the latest and greatest in 

vogue. 
Oh ! silly American, where is your pride, 
For a country and freedom so happy and 

wide. 
On whatever folly your weakness con- 
cludes, 
Don't mimic the ways of acephalous dudes. 

If any American will but reflect, 
I think, (for the sake of his own self- 
respect.) 



If his heart with the blood of a patriot throb 
He would spurn to be led by a pitiful snob. 
The very idea of aping a monkey — 
To borrow the bray of a consummate 

donkey, 
Tho prince of all donkeys it well may be 

said — 
With a spoonful of brain, in a bushel of 

head. 

It's all very well for the English to say, 
"Ga-lawsses" and "Grawss" in that bar- 
barous way, 
But when an American copies the whine, 
By twisting his mouth, and distorting his 

spine, 
And then makes a failure as most of them 

do, 
Betraying their weakness and awkward- 
ness too — 
I move to appoint a committee of three, 
To fill up the hole where the brain ought 
to be. 

I've nothing against either scholar orr*oi>l ; 
I don't want an office, nor don't run a school; 
Nor do I deny to the ''queen of the seas," 
The right to pronounce ev'ry word as they 

please : 
I only condemn our American apss 
For twisting their words into horrible 

shapes, 
To make it appear that the "lawsses" and 

"lawddies." 
u Gawnt" utter the speech of their mothers 

and "dawddies." 



10 

Oh, listen, ye linguists ! at u favmcy n and 
u davmoe ' 

And words of this kind give the novice a 
u cliawncJ' 

To practice the sound of this wonderful 
letter; 

The more he rehearses, of course, is the 
better. 

And now when he learns how to u lithp" 
and U)"dswawl" 

He is then like a baby that's learni lg to 
crawl : 

And having learned this, it will lengthen 
its tether 

By making one step, and then two to- 
gether. 

The Anglo- American must have a horse, 
And bang off his tail, as a matter of course, 
And make the poor creature, in summer 

to stand 
With the stut of a tail, not as long as your 

hand, 
And slap at the flies with a terrible smack, 
That will loosen the column of bones in 

his back; 
And then you can see the poor horse shake 

his head. 
And say to himself "all the fools are not 
dead." 

The snob needs a dog, with a collar and ring, 
A whip with a whistle, a horn with a string, 
A scoop on hi c - head, and his leggings of 

leather, 
And all of these novelties taken together, 






11 

With corduroys "gathered before they arc 

ripe," 
Will make up an Anglo-American snipe, 
No matter who loses, so he's on the level, 
The board-bills and tailors may go to the 

devil. 

o 



THE CHURCH MILITANT. 

I saw a vision once: the scene impressed 
My senses with an over- whelming 
awe — 
A church, where priest and acolytes were 
dressed 
In pompous splendor. Then anon I saw 
The worshipers come slowly down the 
aisle, 
And kneeling silent, in their cushioned 
pews, 
With covered eyes and moving lips the 
while, 
Each one the guilty conscience did 
accuse, 
Each contrite heart avowed repent- 
ance there, 
While solemn music filled the house of 
prayer. 

Then like the swelling waves upon the 
ocean, 
The organ tones, in sacred grandeur 
rolled; 
Each suppliant, with obvious devotion, 
Arose and stood, and all their sins con- 
doled: 



12 

Confession next, and all absolved from sin, 
With open books, they mumbled o'er the 
psalter; 
Then chant and prayer filled up the time 
again, 
Until the priest descended from the altar: 
In strict accordance with the rubric next, 
He read his notices and then his text. 



From holy writ he pointed out the cause 
Of man's depraved condition from the 
first : 
And showed that Adam disobeyed the laws. 
For which transgression all mankind 
are cursed: 
And thus convicted every mortal son. 
Before the bar of justice, stood dis- 
owned, 
Until obedience was found in one, 

By virtue whereof all were then con- 
doned. 
And thus by proxy, man was caused to sin 
And thsnby proxy, sanctified again. 

Bahold the guileless innocence of man, 

The passive creature whose inherent lot 
Exposes him to God's eternal ban, 

The guiltless victim of a heartless plot, 
In which one man provoked the burning 
curse 

On all the mundane progeny of time, 
For which Jehovah damned the universe, 

To expurgate one trifling little crime ; 
And that one crime, committed by one soul, 
To punish which small part he'd damned 
the whole. 



13 

Whereas the gospel to our comfort brings 
The joyful promise of mankind redeemed : 
The dove of peace, with healing on its wings , 
The sun of hope through rifted darkness 
gleamed. 
From out the depths of man's profound 
despair, 
The songs of joy from grateful millions 
swell, 
Because the innocent is doomed to wear 

The burning shackles of eternal hell. 
How cruel — how resentful God must seem, 
To bear the guilt of this collossal scheme. 

But sage and sophist wrangle learned and 
loud, 
And wander through the labyrinths of 
lore; 
And high through regions of pedantic 
cloud, 
On arrogant, scholastic wings, they soar; 
So far above the common walks of thought, 
Their mystic perorations take their flight, 
That only glimpses now and then are 
caught, 
Where fledgeling laymen dare not tempt 
the hight. 
Their sacerdotal shoes are made so strange, 
That rights and lefts with perfect ease 
exchange. 

The sum and substance of the scheme in 
brief 
Is simply this, by Adam's fatal fall 
That hopeless, countless millions came to 
grief, 
Accursed with thrice the bitterness of gall. 



14 

When ages passed and centuries had flown, 
A righteous man, who never had a fault, 

Was made to bear the burden as his own — 
Was crucified, and buried in a vault; 

So man in fact has neither part nor lot, 

Not even as accomplice, in the plot. 

What mystic creeds self-righteous man has 
built, 
From which unbounded comfort we de- 
rive — 
One sins for all — another bears the guilt, 
While gods and priests at all the rest 
connive. 
This fundamental dogma is the source, 

From whence the murky waters of beliefs 
Pursue the blind meanderings of their 
course 
Through jungles, till they break upon the 
reefs 
Of reason, where whole theosophic fleets 
Have gone to wreck, with creeds for wind- 
ins: sheets. 



l ,-^ 



But such is faith, whose servile arms 
embrace 
The phantom forms which haunt the dark 
frontier 
Of ignorance : and on the narrow base 

Of human concept , (circumscribed by fear) , 
Confines Omnipotence : and from the 
wrecks 
Of former rites, to other gods performed, 
Constructs a creed, whose mystic ten as 
perplex 
The pious sage, whose priestly heart is 
warmed 



15 

By sacrificial fires, whose sacred flame 
Forever burns, in some deiflc name. 

Some zealous bigot, in a leisure hour, 

Will scan these lines, with orthodoxic 
eye ; 
His righteous spleen would piously devour 

The heretic, who durst his creed deny: 
But friend, I trust there is a God, indeed 

I feel the pressing instinct to believe; 
But not that he should ever wish or need 

Oblations, blood, or victims to retrieve 
The loss which guilt entailed, when Jus- 
tice, bribed. 
The sins of one, to all the race ascribed. 

How could the God of mercy ever crave 

The blood or peace of any guiltless thing? 
It takes no blood, or fire, or prayers to save: 

No paschal lamb before his alter bring. 
Each heart's a temple, every soul's a priest 

And conscience is the gift upon the altar: 
Let pagans sacrifice with bird or beast, 

And thus believe their peccant deeds to 
palter: 
Two words indite the universal creed — 
u Do right" and God will ever bless the 
deed. 



16 
WOMAN. 



TO THOSE WHOSE HEARTS ARE EDENS OF 
THEIR LOVE. 



Ob! fairest creature, born of love and 
grace, 
What tongue can sing thy meed of praise 
replete ? 
Such dreams of heaven linger in thy face 
That angels bow in homage at thy feet. 
The artful mind that first conceived thy 
mold, 
Itself beheld thee with enamored eyes, 
And gave to man thy blushing charms 
untold, 
To fill his soul with joy — his heart with 
sighs. 
Upon thy head is lavished all the wealth 

Of flowing tresses, like a golden dawn; 
Caressing thee in tender, playful stealth, 
They fall like shadows o'er they virgin 
form: 
And o'er thy shoulders fair the ringlets roll 
Like waves of amber on a sea of gold. 

And o'er thy bosom, pours the golden 
stream, 
As softly as the tread of falling snow: 
As noiseless as the footsteps of a dream, 
Adown thine arms the silken treas- 
ures flow. 



17 

Then smiling through that mist of golden 
hair, 
Those eyes, in which the beams of heaven 
shine, 
Their tender light inspires the lips of 
prayer, 
And all the world is bending at thy 
shrine. 
The angels first beheld, in Eden's bowers, 
Thy beauty, on that primal Sabbath morn ; 
And saw thee strolling 'mid ambrosian 
flowers: 
No art presumed thy beauty to adorn — 
Elysian zephyrs paid their am'rous vow, 
And kissed the ringlets on thy virgin brow. 

But when that happy Sabbath's rising sun, 

O'er sinless Eden, cast his jealous ray, 
Then Envy, with an evil eye begun 
To search thee for a fault, and from that 
day 
The serpent set his heart upon thy fall, 

And to that end his rhetoric did devise 
The web of argument which would en- 
thrall, 
And lead thee from the shades of Para- 
dise; 
And having thus his speech rehearsed and 
conned 
To please thy vanity; his nimble tongue 
Well trained ; his wits forestalling thee, 
respond 
To every qualm, whose rueful darts 
have stung 
Thy disobedience. Oh! thou so pure, 
Who walked the thornless ways of love 
demure. 



18 

His shrewd orations were prepared to suit 
His fiendish task ; his scaly length en- 
coiled 
About the tree where hung the fatal fruit, 

His adulations first thy heart entoiied, 
And gained an audience. The sacred 
portals 
Of thy heart unbarred ; thy vigilance 
disarmed, 
Thou'dst listen with the vanity of mortals, 
And by his burning eloquence wert 
charmed. 
And thus temptation steals upon the heart, 
While glozing words unlock the temple 
gate, 
And bribe the guards which conscience 
set apart 
To warn us of the danger ere too late. 
Beware, oh, woman ! of that serpent's 

tongue, 
For every soul that's listened, he hath 
stung. 

That slimy serpent who conceived the plan 
That filled the earth with heresy and 
dread, 
Was not a crawling reptile — it was man — 
The selfish monarch whose imperious 
tread 
Hath shook the earth. Yea, he, whose 
tyrant hand 
Hath swayed with zeal the crimson rod 
of empire, 
And drenched, with human gore, the sea 
and land, 
And warmed the world for centuries with 
camp-fires — 



19 

The despot who hath built his ample 
throne 
Upon thy trusting heart, and now doth 
wait 
To find thee in thy citadel alone: 

His pampered cohorts, standing at thy 
gate, 
Shall tread thy crown of virtue in the dust, 
And thou shaltpay thy tribute to his lust. 



Upon the ruins of thy broken heart. 

He will erect a monarchy of scorn ; 
Will tear the garments of thy shame 
apart, 
And leave thee naked, weeping, and for- 
lorn. 
Dethroned, and banished from thy queenly 
state, 
In moral beggary thy heart will 
grope ; 
Thy tears will never move the heart of 
Fate; 
Despair will thrust thee from the gates 
of Hope : 
Remorse will guide thee down the mighty 
way ; 
Thy lagging steps by Pain will be pur- 
sued ; 
And Passions, like the famished birds of 
prey, 
Will tear thy breast to feed their starv- 
ing brood : 
Thy pallid lips will blight the name of 

prayer, 
And Death will mock thy sorrow and des- 
pair. 



20 

But thou canst break the sceptre of his 
power, 
And make him bend his royal head in 
awe ; 
Unlock the dungeons of his storm-proof 
tower, 
And bind his minions with the chains of 
law : 
Yea! thou canst slay the dragon of his lust, 
And bear thy banner through his vacant 
halls, 
While dews of peace will hide his sword 
with rust, 
His armor hanging on his castle walls, 
If thou wilt arm with Virtue's golden 
shield, 
And let true Honor meet his bold advance, 
And march Resentment to the open field, 
Where Charity shall hurl her warlike 
lance: 
When man is met by woman, true and 

brave, 
He'll chain his vassals and become her 
slave. 



■o 



DESPAIR. 



TO THOSE WHO ARE WEARY OF WAITING. 



Ye toiling mariners of time, ahoy ! 

The sea is heavy and the winds are 
hoarse ; 
Through fogs of doubt, no beacon -light or 
buoy 
Shall guide your wandering bark upon 
its course. 



21 

Ten-thousand reefs beset the sea of life : 
In vain your anchors to the w inward 
cast * 
The storms of sorrow and the winds of 
strife 
Shall drift you leeward till the night is 
past. 



The chafing billows mock the shrieking 
gale, 
And lash their wrath against the how- 
ling night ; 
The burning souls of sheol curse and wail, 
While evil gods with bolts of ruin smite. 
Ye fates and demons ! why should man be 
borne, 
To bear the curse of others, and in vain, 
For their defaults, henceforth forever 
mourn 
Within that voiceless solitude of pain ? 



Alas ! what solitude is there so deep 

As that we find amid the living throng ? 
What grief so sharp as one that cannot 
weep ? 
What sweet relief to give our woes a 
tongue ! 
But why — oh, why! should I repine and 
fret ? 
What hope can rise from such profound 
despair ? 
I could forgive, if I could then forget, 
The galling wrongs this life has had to 
bear. 



22 

Accursed hope ! that looks for joy to- 
morrow ; 
The ghouls of yesterday infest that shore: 
I drain the dreg*s of this last cup of sorrow; 
What wretch of earth could ever thirst 
for more ? 
Misfortune crowned my infant brow with 
thorns ; 
Despair bestrewed my path with with- 
ered flowers, 
The angels wept — Fate smiled when I was 
born : 
The Furies marked the dial at he hours. 

Hope turned away and sighed — Faith look- 
ed and fled — 

Not even smiled the good grace, Charity: 
I must have seemed so monster-like — so 
dread, 

That ne'er before was seen my parity. 
The demons of the deep — that evil crew — 

Surely attended on that natal day ; 
And ere the vital breath of life I drew, 

Some fatal shadow fell across my way. 

No tender heart, heaving its am'rous sighs 
Hath loved me ; no loving arms caressed 
me ; 
No arch of beauty spanning my dark skies 
Hath ever, with one fruitful promise 
blessed me: 
No rosy fingers smooth the brow of care, 

No lips of love seduce the leaden hours, 
Or seal the slumbering eyes with whisper- 
ed prayer, 
While cherubs light the lamps in heav- 
en's toAv'rs. 



23 

The gladsome voice of revelry no more 

Can win my melancholy heart, or break 
The spell that binds me to this dismal 
shore, 
Where drowsy Hope shall never more 
awake 
From dreamless sleep, or spread her downy 
wings, 
To fan the brow of Agony. Grim Care, 
In the midnight of my grief, around me 
flings 
Her sable shroud, and pins it with despair. 

My life is like a harp with broken strings; 
Its severed chords will never more prolong 
The trembling echo which around it clings; 
It nevermore shall wake the voice of song. 
There is no charm in life's unhappy dream 
To lure ms back from those eternal 
shades ; 
Life has no hope which time may yet re- 
deem, 
For hope untimely born untimely fades. 

Unhappy world! how keen thy dagger 
stings, 
How burns the lash with which thou dost 
embroil 
My chafing spirit, whose obeisant wings 

Already droop and bend with fruitless toil. 
Oh ! is there not somewhere a cloistered 
cell- 
Some secret vault — some consecrated 
cave, 
Where sweet Lethean waters quench the 
hell 
Of memory, in their oblivious wave ? 



24 

Oh wretched world! in sorrow and despair, 

I fling at thee the gaudy, gilded toys, 
With which thou hast allured my childish 
care, 
To chase the butterflies of hopeless joys. 
I hate thee, with a poisoned hate, oh, 
world ! 
And who, that once thy bitter chalice 
sips, 
Would not, its venomed contents at thee 
hurl. 
And seal with burning curse, his dying 
lips? 

But I shall speak no bitter words of hate, 
Nor sob with penitence, or keen regret ; 
But Peace shall guide me through the 
silent gate, 
Where parting pilgrims pay the final 
debt. 
No dream shall call the echoes from the 
past ; 
Nor vision rend the veil of future care ; 
The muse of grief, my horoscope has cast, 
And Hope has kissed the feet of pale 

Despair. 



"O- 



THE DREAM, 



• Twas night meridian; the world was still, 
Except the tower clock which promptly 



rung 



Twelve notes in monotone, as loud and 
shrill 
As e'er was uttered by its iron tongue. 



25 

The chanticleers from many a neighbor- 
ing' hill 
Responded in a chorus clear and strong, 
And like the sentry from his nightly beat, 
Call out the watch of night and then repeat. 

Then silence once again her mantle spread 
O'er all the slumbrous realm of night 
serene, 
And Morpheus pinned the curtains of each 
bed: 
The waning moon poured down her sil- 
ver sheen, 
And appparitions stalked with noiseless 
tread, 
While restless spirits walked the night 
unseen: 
Repose sat brooding o'er nocturnal deep, 
My prayers committed me to balmy sleep. 

From thence till dawn had curtained in the 
stars, 
And young Apollo, with his fiery team, 
Drove up the steeps of Heav'n his flaming 
car, 
And matin prayers had blessed the rising 
beam ; 
Till fair Aurora drew the golden bars, 

My soul was tortured with a fitful dream : 
A dream so full of terror, tears and pain, 
I would not, for a kingdom, dream again. 

Ecstatic symphonies from golden lutes 
By magic fingers o'er the gamut swept, 

Harmonic numbers from a thousand flutes 
So touched my heart, that in my dream, I 
wept: 



26 

But as the notes of siren songs transmute 
The sane to madness, so across me crept 
The spell insidious, till the mellow tones 
Were waiis of grief, discordant sighs and 
groans. 

The beauteous forms which erst had hov- 
ered near. 
On wings which Iris might have worn 
with pride, 
Transformed to grinning skeletons appear, 
And, with their bony arms extended wide, 
The empty sockets of their eyes would leer; 
Their naked teeth anon would sneer and 
chide. 
They mocked at life's attenuated breath, 
And scoffed at sleep's frail mimicry of death. 

They tempted me, with many a suasive 
beck, 
To follow where the phantom pilot led, 
Until my terror could no longer check 
The impulse, which, though filled with 
mortal dread, 
At last prevailed, and weary of life's 
wreck, 
Methoughtmy terror and reluctance fled: 
And thence through shades of silence dark 

as doom, 
My journey led me to the land of tombs. 

The way was rugged and the night was 
dark : 
The astral sparks of Galaxy had died: 
My grim companions vouchsafed no re- 
marl: 



27 

The strength my courage lack d, my 
fears supplied, 
While at my heels a thousand terrors hark- 
ed, 
Till Erebus resounded as they cried. 
A thousand fiends crouched in a thousand 

nooks, 
With eyes aflame, and torture in their 
looks. 

Ten thousand serpents hissed with fiery 
stings, 
And scorpions of most unweildy length, 
And dragons huge, with phosphorescent 
wings 
And burning claws of most proligious 
strength, 
Chimeras, ghouls— ten thousand nameless 
things — 
Offspring and heirs of darkness and of 
stench, 
Too frightful to recall — too hideous to tell, 
Their habitat, the dark domains of hell. 

Anon we crossed a sighing lake of tears. 
Whose sleeping waves our ploughing 
keel did startle, 
As o'er its flood the lab 'ring pilot steers 
Unto the Isle of Night, where weeping 
mortal, 
Bent down with grief, (the recompense of 
years,) 
At last arrives before the ebon portal, 
Where Faith has written on the arching 

cope 
In beams of light, the sacred nr.me of 
"Hope." 



28 

Alas ! metkousrht here is the marble srate, 
Through which the armies of the world 
must march : 
Pilgrim with staff and king with rod of 
state, 
Alike must bend his head beiieath its 
arch: 
No pomp can flex the iron will of Fate; 
And though the f erver of her zeal should 
parch 
The universe, her fiat, grim and stern, 
Will stand, though earth and space and 
Heaven burn. 



I turned and looked across the stygian tide 
Towards the shores of Time where mor- 
tals dwell — 
That realm of grief — that monarchy of 
pride — 
The prince's paradise — the pauper's hell, 
Where want and wealth the ways of life 
divide — 
Where kindred part and never say "fare- 
well—" 
That land where love with treachery so 

blends 
That friends, like cannibals, devour their 
friends. 



I heard the prayer of orphans, and a sigh 
Escaped the lodgement of my sorrow's 
keeping; 

I heard the stifled voice of Justice cry ; 
I heard the piteous sobs of Mercy weep- 



29 

I heard deep murmurs in the earth and sky, 
And wondered, can it be that God is 

sleeping ? 
I heard, at times, the fragments of a song 
The saints repeat, "how long, oh. Lord ! 

how long ?" 



I saw the lightning break his fiery chains. 
And hurl his shining javelin through 
cloud; 
The} r groaned in labor, and writhing in 
pains 
Brought forth the storm in thunder deep 
and loud. 
Oblivion spread her wings across the 
plains, 
And wrapped the earth in her eternal 
shroud. 
'Twas Evil's holiday ! I stood in wait, 
A dreadful moment at the mystic gate. 



The ghastly warden rolled his lurid eyes, 

As if to mock that deep and dismal gloom: 
That monarch, who demands the last 
excise, 
With firmness held the giant key of doom: 
The distant thunders moaned along the 
skies, 
And mournful echoes answered from 
the tomb: 
He turned the key — I felt his putrid 

breath — . 
The bolts were drawn which lock the doors 
of death. 



:-5<r 

The portals swung ajar; the muffled knell 

Of time had died away: a feeble lamp, 
With pale and livid flame, illumed the cell, 
Whose leprous walls were slimy, cold 
and damp. 
I stood within — the pondrous gates of hell 
Behind me closed, and I could not de- 
camp. 
Ye patron saints! I'd rend the earth with 

prayer. 
To find a refuge from this wild despair. 

A weird whisper came, I know not whence; 
It said "the gods are just, the gods con- 
done 
The sins of man. Through yonder postern 
hence, 
Divested first of mortal flesh and bone. ,, 
Immortal spirit freed from all offence 

Arose from earth : no bounds of time or zone 
Confined its flight, but swift as thoughts 

of love 
It rose like hope, to fields of joy above. 



-o 



MEDITATIONS. 

[Some sober thoughts on Lif- nnd Death.] 

Dear friends, what reason can we best 
assign, 

Why we consent to fret our time away ? 
It surely is no pleasure to repine; 

Then why wish we to tarry yet a day — 
A week — a month — a year, so full of pain — 

A century, I might say with much truth? 
And then we'd wish to live it o'er again: 

It might be well with an eternal youth; 



-31 

But when old age (which years are "bound 
to bring) 

Frowns, like a fury, at our shrinking form, 
With feeble grasp, in vain, to life we cling, 

Trying again our freezing blood to warm. 
Why do we thus hang on to this frail Jife, 

And beg another moment yet to linger 
Amid the turmoil, clamor, din and strife, 

And dread the touch of Death's cold, 
clammy finger ? 

Poor soul ! how surely it forever falters 
Between the known and unknown, un- 
decided ; 
Doubting the promise made o'er smoking 
altars, 
With equal scales of faith and doubt 
divided ; 
Still trying with the sunshine of a smile, 
To dry the rain -drops shed from clouds 
of sorrow : 
Still sighing with a heavy heart the while, 
Believing it were readier to-morrow. 

Ah ! there's a shudder that betrays our 
weakness; 
As we stand trembling on the verge of 
time, 
We turn and lookback o'er life's waste 
and bleakness: 
Then faintly, from afar we hear the chime 
Which tells us we must go : and yet we 
wonder 
If some great remedy may not restore us: 
And thus we pause and vaguely wish and 
ponder, 
Our prayers unsaid — the open grave be- 
fore us. 



32- 

Why hesitate ? The only pain is parting 
From those we love ; there may be oth- 
ers waiting. 
Who, from the other shore, may see us 
starting, 
And may rejoice. Then why this hesi- 
tating ? 
Be not afraid ! 'Tis fear that breeds the 
error, 
Which doth ascribe to deattuso sharp a 
pang. 
Be brave! It strips the monarch of his 
terror — 
It robs the serpent of his deadly fangs. 



If it be true that there are zones of joy, 
What ghost would loiter in this vale of 
tears , 
Refusing gold and hoarding base alloy ? 
The wings of faith are bound with chains 
of fear. 
Although when life is flowing at full tide. 
The brimming chalice of the heart pours 
out 
The wine of prayer ; and from the world 
we hide 
The skeptic conscience, fraught with pa- 
gan doubt. 



Let smiling Hope fill up her failing lamp 
To guide thy trembling steps across the 
marl 
Of doubt, where Night hath pitched her 
silent camp. 
And Solitude hath hung her robes of harl. 



With trusting heart, behold the quiet face 
Of one embalmed in his eternal sleep ; 

How tenderly the arms of peace embrace 
The sleeping form ! Why should the liv- 
ing weep ? 

How oft the living cowled in sombrous 
crape, 
With loving hands besiege the tomb 
with roses; 
While Mem'ry weaves the sacred web to 
drape 
The silent chamber where the dead re- 
poses. 
Bestrew the earth with emblems of thy 
grief, 
And tell thy love in flowers fresh with 
beauty ; 
The tomb, at last, likewise, shall be thy 
feoff— 
Another's love may pay these tithes of 
duty. 

But weep no more : bnsath that mound of 
earth 
There dwells more peace and joy and 
love untold, 
Than could be bought with all the count- 
less worth 
Of argent continents, or isles of gold. 
Then why com'st thou, dear friend, with 
muffled tread, 
To vex the ear of happiness with weeping, 
And with despair enwreathe the pillowed 
head 
Of one we love, who " is not dead, but 

sleeping . ? " 



34 

When balmy night marshals her starry 
hosts, 
And sleep invites us from the toils of day, 
And superstitions populate with ghosts 
The somnant world, oh! then I love to 
stray 
Among the moaning pmes and sigh ing elms, 
Where from his marble throne, the king 
of sleep 
Wields his dark sceptre o'er the drowsy 
realm, 
Where spirit guards their mighty biv- 
ouac keep. 

Each claybound cell, thatched with the 
grassy sod, 

Is a cathedral, where no pampered priest, 
With up-raised chalice to his frowning god. 

Offers his flattery and sues for peace. 
No pealing anthems echo through its 
arches, 

No burning tapers from its chancel shine. 
Ho choral train in solemn order marches 

With alms or incense to its tearful shrine. 

Thou, voiceless tomb ! thou art the only goal 
Which all men win. Thou art the one 
estate 
Which man inherits from the years of old, 
About whose deed, no heirs at Jaw debate. 
Thy peaceful shade full oft invites my 
leisure. 
And many a weary hour of care beguiles. 
And clips the thorns of pain from buds of 
pleasure, 
And wreathes the marble brow of death 
with smiles. 



/ 



35 

'Tis here the spirit voice of conscience 
wooes 
The ear of faith; and love up-lifts her rod 
Of iron, the serpent head of doubt to bruise. 
While something whispers soft "there is 
a God!" 
From lips unseen, we feel the weird breath 
Of some strange presence, and a voice 
within 
The chancel of our bosom murmurs 
"death"— 
The birth from which another life begins. 

The soul was not created with the life, 
Nor can it die. No tribute shall it give 

The conqueror. It shall survive the strife 
And wreck of worlds and live while God 
shall live. 

If God had made, He could unmake the 

soul, 
And back to nothingness His creature 

send '. 
Who would not weep to hear the dismal toil 
Of fun'ral bells, if thus existence end ? 

Alas! who knows? This life is but a spark, 
Caught for a moment from the torch of 
Time; 
An instant lighting the primeval dark, 
Then gone forever, leaving no trace be- 
hind. 
Between two vast eternities suspended, 

Is man, upon the brittle thread of Fate: 
A breath! a sigh! a gasp! and all is ended; 
Whence came, or whither gone, 'tis folly 
to debate. 



-&, 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




^r 



i 






1 




ifiiiiP 

018 597 337 2 



Hollinger Corp. 
pH 8.5 



